


what i've tasted of desire

by ginnyweasleys



Category: Fantastic Four (2015)
Genre: M/M, pre film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyweasleys/pseuds/ginnyweasleys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You suppose it’s only fair that he succumbs to the ice if you’re not going to fight the fire. ―- JohnnyVictor</p>
            </blockquote>





	what i've tasted of desire

**Author's Note:**

> for _riddhi_ , happy birthday!
> 
> entirely based on the movie because i have no other knowledge of the fantastic four. or cars. i know nothing about cars.

**what i've tasted of desire**

_some say the world will end in fire  
_ _some say in ice_

― robert frost, fire and ice

* * *

 

He’s ice. It makes sense that he’d like Sue, because she’s water. Cool, calm, refreshing. The reflection of the sky like glass over her skin. Invisible when she wants to be; wild when she doesn’t.

It makes sense. He’s cold and sharp but he can shatter in his rage. Can be deadly in the wrong hands. But, underneath it all, still water. A different state of matter, but still like Sue. Science and ambition. Dreams beyond this world.

And you?

You are fire.

-:-

He spends a lot of time at your house, those early, dawning days when their world was still bright and full of possibilities. Stays over most nights, working with your father in his office, spends dinner at your table, flirting with your sister. You wouldn’t mind if he weren’t so damn _annoying_.

“Do you expect street racing to yield any promising future for you, or is its sole purpose to irritate your father?”

You hate it when he’s the only one up by the time you return. You’ve stopped drinking when you go out at night entirely because he gets so smug and self-satisfied when he catches you with a hangover the next morning. Tonight, you still feel kind of drunk, though, dazed with adrenaline and your blood still pounding, the screech of tires on concrete echoing in your head.

“Irritating my father _is_ a promising future,” you tell him, injecting as much bite into the words as you can muster up the effort for, and flop down onto the sofa. He stays behind the kitchen counter, observing you coolly over a mug of coffee.

Ice. Water. You feel like you’re on fire just sensing his gaze on your back.

“What are you even doing here?” you ask, wanting to collapse and fall asleep on the couch, but also not wanting to do it in front of him. Being vulnerable and defenseless against Victor Von Doom would be a mistake, you are sure of this. “Don’t you have your _own_ home to terrorize?”

He chuckles, the sound low and hoarse in his throat. “If it’s my own home, I can hardly terrorize it, can I?”

“Can’t you?” you snap, too tired to come up with a better retort. “Did Sue kick you out of bed?” _That_ does it. You’re not looking at him but you can practically his face darken like a stormcloud.

“Your sister and I are not sleeping together,” he says, words clipped. “And I was just leaving.” There’s a _slam_ as he sets his coffee mug down on the counter, too harsh to be casual, and then his footsteps behind you.

“Good night,” you mutter sarcastically. He pauses at the doorway, probably to roll his eyes, but you have an arm over your face now so you still can’t see him. The door shuts behind him, leaving you alone in the emptiness of your house.

-:-

He’s back the next day. You’ve stopped being surprised several weeks ago. He doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t mention that he saw you come in way past your curfew, and you don’t acknowledge him, either.

Your father forces you to exchange pleasantries before you head back to the garage to fix up the car for tonight’s race. At some point, when the afternoon starts growing hazy and heavy with sunshine, he finds you out there, leaning against the entryway to the garage until you decide to notice him.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No,” he says lightly. You turn over your shoulder just enough to catch him surveying you with a carefully blank expression. “You’re doing it wrong, though.”

“Oh, and I suppose you know so much about cars?” Your teeth grind because he probably _does_. He’s smart – way beyond smart. He’s a genius, and he’s working on a portal to another dimension and you – you are working on your car in your dusty old garage.

He gets under your skin like nothing else.

“If you don’t want my help, I won’t offer it,” he says, but he pauses like he expects you to ask.

“Why would I want your help?” you ask, ice in your tone, as much as you can muster to approach the ice that’s usually in his.

“Because if you do this wrong, the next time you go racing, your car is going to explode.”

He says this calmly, like the implicit warning beneath his words doesn’t matter to him one bit – _you are going to die_. Somehow, your mind translates this as a challenge.

“Yeah? Why don’t you come with me tonight?” The words are out like a shot before you can reign them in. “See how shoddy my workmanship is up close. If I die, you get bragging rights.”

His eyes flash. “I don’t want you to _die_.”

You’re about to ask why, but you know the reason. You’re Sue’s brother. He likes Sue. You have to remind yourself to stop clenching your jaw.

“Good, because I have no plans to do so.” You wrench your screwdriver loose and turn back to face him fully. His gaze roves up and down your body – greasy, sweaty, covered in soot. He looks positively pristine compared to you, even though he hasn’t shaved in three days and his shirt has coffee stains on it.

“I’ll come,” he says finally, stalking forward and snatching the screwdriver from your hands. “So I can be sure that you won’t die.”

You watch wordlessly as he kneels down in front of the car and reaches for your toolbox, the rest of his statement going unsaid – _you won’t die because of_ me _._

-:-

“If this is for Sue, you don’t need to do it,” you tell him as the two of you stand, leaning against your car in the alleyway, waiting for the others. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I’d rather not take the chance, if you don’t mind,” he says dryly. All ice again. You feel your face burning up. “You did offer.”

“I didn’t really expect you to take it,” you admit. “Thought your whole world was that dimensional portal project.”

He shrugs, casual as if discussing the weather. His shoulder muscles roll beneath his t-shirt, black against his fair skin. “It is. But I have hobbies.”

“Like watching me die?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His lips twitch in an almost smile. “Like watching you make a fool of yourself, yes. If you die, I will bring you back to life and kill you again just to avoid facing your father, so don’t do that.”

Your breath goes down in a swallow. It almost sounds like flirting, almost like the way he is around Sue, except – except Sue isn’t here and it’s just you, so that’s ridiculous.

“I’ll try my best,” you manage to quip before other cars pull up. To your surprise, he gets in the passenger seat. “You’re gonna trust me with your life?”

“No, I’m trusting me with my life,” he says, buckling himself in. “I gave your car a few upgrades. Safety measures and whatnot. Unless you’re a truly terrible driver, we’ll be fine.”

You open your mouth to respond, though you have no words in your head, when one of the other boys calls from the next car over, a wicked laugh in his voice – “Got yourself a boyfriend, Johnny?”

Victor doesn’t say anything, staring straight ahead. A muscle in your jaw clenches, but you ignore him, too. That’s a kind of bait you can’t rise to. Not getting a reaction, the boy settles back down with a decidedly disappointed frown.

Before the race starts, you chance a glance over at him. He’s still not looking at you. Taking a breath, you steel your hands on the wheel – _one two three_ – and slam on the gas.

-:-

Driving with him is different from driving alone. His presence is a pressure on your shoulders, a weight you can’t ignore. You want to curse him for coming along, want to curse yourself for inviting him. It’s not even so much that you feel responsible for his life as it is – that you’re enjoying it.

Because _he’s_ enjoying it.

You can tell, even though he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t scream in delight or fright, doesn’t do much except grasp the armrest tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, but he’s enjoying it. You can’t look at him much, only every time you turn to the right, but his face is bright and he can’t seem to stop the smile on his face from sneaking out.

He _likes_ this, driving with you, racing with you. The adrenaline, the danger, the thrill of adventure – you can see your emotions mirrored in his posture, the way he leans forward at the turns, the way he doesn’t bother to sweep his hair out of his face, when he would have, if he were around Sue.

But he’s not around Sue. He’s with _you_.

You win the race by a good several miles. Apparently, his upgrades and safety measures worked. The others fork over their money to you, part of tonight’s gamble, and leave, grumbling that you’d cheated somehow. And maybe you had – you’d had his help, involuntarily or not.

“How was that?” you ask, still sitting in the car in the lonely road as the lights of the city dim around you. Nobody else is there except the cicadas in the grass and the two of you.

“Illuminating,” he says, because of course he can’t pay you a straight a compliment. “I couldn’t understand what the thrill of this was for you for the longest time.”

You grin despite yourself, unable to help the self-satisfaction that runs through you. “And now you do?”

Victor inclines his head, reluctant. “I can see why it appeals to you.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” you say with a snort, nudging him in the ribs with your elbow. He shifts in his seat, the movement hard to ignore in the quiet of the night. “You _liked_ it. Just admit it, I won’t tell anyone. Not even Sue.”

His half-grin fades at the mention of Sue. “She won’t care if she finds out.”

“Aren’t you worried about your reputation?” you ask, probing. “Going out alone at night with the boss’s son, participating in illegal activities – _dangerous_ activities?”

He leans closer, his breath cold in the chill of the night. The only thing warm on his body is the flush on his cheeks brought forth by your words. “I deal with far more dangerous things than a couple of reckless teenage boys on a daily basis.”

“Yeah?” you ask, edged on by the way his eyes gleam, the soft golden light of the streetlamps casting shadows over his face, the way a muscle in his jaw moves at your tone, the way he looks at your lips. “Prove it.”

You don’t know quite what you’re asking him to prove, but prove it he does. He all but lunges forward, as much as he can with his seat belt in the way, and grabs your face and presses his lips to yours. It’s hot and hungry and wild, an extension of the street race, just another way to get the blood pumping in your veins.

You kiss him back, desperate to capture this instant of warmth, the moment of victory – winning the race, winning his kiss, his implicit admission of – of something, you’re not sure what.

Or maybe you just don’t want to think about it, consider it too strongly, not when his hand has started wandering down your chest, your stomach, up the hem of your shirt. You suck in a breath and angle your head to deepen the kiss, sparing one absent thought to how much your father was going to _kill you_ for this, before you lose yourself in his touch.

-:-

The drive home is silent, apart from the engine and your heavy breathing. Neither of you are willing to talk; when you park in the driveway, Victor all but stumbles out and rushes for his own car.

To his credit, he manages to throw a “Good night” over his shoulder. You don’t say it back, staying buckled in your seat, staring at your house looming in front of you, thinking of the boy driving away behind you.

Sue will know, even if your father won’t. She’ll figure it out because she’s smart. Cool, calm, and collected. Like water.

And Victor – Victor was ice, frozen and deadly in the wrong environment. But tonight – tonight he had been something else. Something different – something _hot_.

Tonight, he had let himself be like you. Let himself be fire. The memory is engraved on your skin, carved into every path his hands roamed over your body, tattooed like a bulletin board advertising your night activities.

It felt good. You get out of your car, and the night air hits you in a rush of chilly winds, and you think it might not ever feel that good again.

-:-

When you wreck your car and have to build a new one, he isn’t there to help. When he wrecks himself and leaves the project, you aren’t there to help.

You suppose it’s only fair that he succumbs to the ice if you’re not going to fight the fire.

You leave him behind in his precious new world and don’t think for one moment about the old one that you left covered in ash and soot that night when he was fire and you were aflame.


End file.
